Will Not Remember, Cannot Forget

The problem with a foolproof plan, he muses, is that the very word ‘foolproof’ is an oxymoron. Nothing can stop a truly determined idiot, and all labeling his plot as infallible had done was tempt fate. It was the equivalent of calling the Titanic ‘unsinkable,’ and everyone knows how well that had turned out.

So Chuck really shouldn’t be surprised that his idea has been foiled. But honestly, he is.

“She’s gone,” Blair says seconds after he opens the door. He blinks at her uncomprehendingly. He’s only been up for… well the time it took to walk from his bed to the entrance.

“She’s gone,” Blair repeats, pushing past him into the suite.

“Who’s gone, princess?” he calls after her. She doesn’t answer him, doesn’t even acknowledge he has spoken. In a flash of irritation, he wishes he had let the girls from last night stay over. It would have been worth it to see the look on Blair’s face when she spotted the three brunettes in his bed. He’d love to see what her mind made of that. But alas, it is not to be. Not today at least.

“Nate? Nate?” her voice drifts down the hall towards Chuck. He grits his teeth in annoyance. He can tell he is going to have one hell of a headache if he doesn’t go back to sleep very soon. He follows down the hallway after her.

“Where’s Nate?” Blair demands as soon as he reenters the room.

“Not here. Obviously,” he drawls passing her.

“Well where is he?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” he says as he crawls back onto the bed. He pauses, his smoldering gaze raking over her body. “Now, I’m going back to sleep, unless you’re joining me, in which case…”

He reaches suggestively for the drawstring on his stripped silk pajama bottoms. At her appalled expression, he breaks into a wicked grin and pulls the covers over his head with a laugh. A moment later, the blankets are snatched away.

“You’re disgusting,” she exclaims from the foot of the bed.

“And you’re still wearing clothes,” he observes drily.

She rolls her eyes, ignoring his comment. “I need to find Nate, Chuck.”

He stretches one arm behind his head, propping it up. “Well I don’t know where he is princess. So either leave, or take those off.” Using his free hand, he begins deliberately undoing the buttons of his nightshirt while he leers.

Blair reaches out and slaps downwards. The crack of her palm connecting with his leg is unusually loud in the otherwise silent suite. He doesn’t acknowledge it with anything other than a brief wince, but that fucking hurt.

“I’m serious,” she shouts down at him. “I have to find Nate, talk to him.”

“Get the hell out and call him then,” he snaps, his temper rising to meet hers.

“I tried,” she admits. An emotion flashes across her face so quickly that Chuck almost doubts that he saw it. “He isn’t answering.”

Of course he isn’t, Chuck thinks. Nate’s probably wracked with guilt over screwing Serena. No way he is going to be talking to his girlfriend anytime soon

Chuck deliberates as he avoids meeting Blair’s probing gaze. Then he looks back at her, smirks. “Call Serena,” he suggests. “Maybe she knows where he is.”

In vexation, Blair roars at him. “For the third time, she’s gone!”

He sits up, his attention fully engaged. “What do you mean Serena’s gone?”

“Just that. She left. I just spoke to her mom. She’s gone to a boarding school in Connecticut!” Blair explains in a weird voice. It’s too high pitched. Strained.

He winces at the strident quality of it and curses Serena. He hadn’t counted on her running away from her dirty little secret. The slut has effectively ruined his plan to destroy Blair Waldorf.

Twice!

Bitch.

“She never even told me, Chuck,” Blair continues. “She didn’t even say goodbye.” Then without explanation, she giggles, and he thinks it is quite possibly the most unsettling sound he has ever heard. There’s an edge of madness in it. Hysteria.

What the hell?

Disturbed, he nods, keeping his face neutral. “Okay. So Serena’s gone and that’s why you need to talk to Nathaniel. I get it.”

She nods back at him, too rapidly to be normal. “Yes! I mean, no! I mean – ” she says. Then the façade of her composed face cracks, breaks, and she is crying. She buries her face in her hands and sinks onto the foot of his bed.

Shit.

Watching the meltdown, Chuck is conflicted. He can’t remember the last time he saw Blair Waldorf cry. He dreams of making her cry precisely because she doesn’t cry, like he doesn’t cuddle. The entire reasoning behind his scheme for her to learn about Serena and Nate is so that she will cry. But somehow, actually seeing her do it, seeing her small shoulders shake as hot tears run down her face isn’t filling him with the pleasure he thought it would.

He is so not prepared to handle this, and he’ll be damned if he knows what to do.

He gets up, pads to the wet bar, and pours himself a scotch. He pauses, considering. Pours another, and walks back to the girl on his bed.

“Here,” he says, extending the highball. “Take it. You’ll feel better.”

She raises her face, and she really is a mess. Puffy eyes. Reddened nose. Mascara running in dirty tracks down her cheeks. Yet oddly enough, he thinks she has never looked more beautiful.

Concerned despite himself, he watches her delicate fingers curl around the proffered glass. They brush momentarily against his. Then with hollow eyes, she brings the drink to her lips and swallows. Robotically, she repeats the actions until the tumbler is empty.

As she hands it back to him, he cautiously asks, “What the hell is going on, Waldorf?”

She lowers her head, stares at her Louboutin flats. “My parents…” she finally says, but her voice trails off until it is inaudible.

“What about your parents?” he prompts when she doesn’t speak again.

“They’re…” She stops. Draws in a shuddering breath. “They’re getting a divorce.”

“So?” he replies as carefully as he can, trying to keep smirk off his face. But really, he does not get why she is so upset. After all, a failed marriage is an inevitability, not a rare occurrence.

“Chuck, my dad left my mom for a model!” She says it like it is the most scandalous confession he’s ever been privy to. This time he isn’t able to suppress his reaction. He snorts. Even when she glowers at him, he can’t stop. The absurdity is just too humorous.

“Blair, is this seriously what’s got your La Perlas in a bunch? This is the Upper East Side! Men leave their wives for models every other day.”

With a harsh cry, she explodes, “Not for male models they don’t!”

“Oh,” he says in shock. He wishes he could take that single syllable back as soon as it leaves his mouth and he sees her flinch.

“See!” she wails. “See! And soon it’ll be all over Gossip Girl. Everyone will know, all the kids at school, and oh my God…” Her voice dissolves into incoherent weeping.

Fuck.

Letting her cry herself out, he drains his scotch. When her sobs start to wane, he speaks.

“Don’t worry about people at school.”

“Don’t worry?” she says incredulously.

“Who cares what they think. Just screw them.”

She blinks at him in incomprehension. “Excuse me?” she says, a hint of offence in her tone.

Don’t do this, he tells himself. Don’t interfere. Who cares if the wolves of the high school drag her down? Certainly not Chuck Bass. Him? He’ll celebrate. Drink a toast. Laugh at the pain in her eyes. The hurt… The…

He is so royally fucked.

With an exasperated sound, he rakes his hand through his hair, then grabs her slim shoulders.

“You are Blair fucking Waldorf,” he tells her. “Soon to be Queen of Constance Billard, whom every guy wants and every girl wants to be! No one can take that from you. Not unless you let them. Not unless you give up. So don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare give them the satisfaction, understand me?”

His dark eyes penetrate into hers, honest and brutal. Then his gaze softens, along with his tone, “This is your moment to be the heroine from one of your movies, princess. You are Grace Kelly. Grace Kelly is you.”

He expects her to pull away from him, glare, mock, jeer, anything but what she actually does. Anything but just sit there and look back at him like she’s never really seen him before. She swallows, licks her lips. His gaze is drawn to the subtle movement.

And inexplicably something changes. The air is suddenly filled with electricity, tension crackling in the small space between them. His pulse in racing and his skin where it touches hers is on fire, burning in a way that should hurt but doesn’t. Unbidden, he realizes his thumbs are tracing patterns on her arms. He wonders absently how long they have been doing that.

“Chuck,” Blair says, her voice breathless and completely without pretense.

He glances back to her eyes, and what he sees in those chocolate depths dries up all the saliva in his mouth. The look she is giving him is so foreign, so open, so… intimate.

“Blair,” he manages to whisper. So much hesitancy and desire in that one word.

And then one of them is leaning forward. He isn’t sure if it is her, or him, or both of them together, but their lips are now incredibly close and he can feel her soft sweet breath against his face and he’s never wanted anything that scared him so much in his entire life.

The instant before their lips touch, a cruel phantom caress against his cheek, a mocking voice in his head. “…your little crush.”

Instinctively, he recoils. Blair staggers and he turns away from her confused expression as reality comes slamming back along with Georgina’s biting laughter.

What the fuck had he almost done?

He gulps in several breaths to steady himself. He swears he can detect the slightest hint of vanilla permeating the air. He cringes.

Looking back to Blair, he finds that she is once more standing, fully in command of herself. Her lips are pressed into a grim line, a dark flush colors her cheeks and her eyes flash with restrained fury. Good, he thinks. He desperately needs her guards up until he can get his own under control.

“You!” she spits like a dirty word. The tone is chilling. Her anger always is, icy and calculating. It makes her dangerous. The cool exterior, the fire below. A deadly combination.

He twists his mouth into a smirk, forces the leer he knows she expects to see. It works.

“I hate you,” she sneers before grabbing her clutch and walking haughtily to the door of his suite. He doesn’t try to stop her, and only when the lock clicks into place does he allow himself to drop the show of cocky arrogance. Immediately, he crumples back onto the bed. He feels a strange urge to open his mouth and scream and scream until he has no voice left.

Instead, he stands and gets his scotch, brings it to the couch. He doesn’t even bother with a glass this time, just takes long swigs straight from the bottle. He’s going to get sick, he knows. He’s drinking too much, too fast. But he doesn’t care. He’d rather puke or pass out. Anything besides being fully cognizant of what had been about to happen on his bed.

He’d nearly kissed Blair Waldorf. His best friend’s girlfriend. The girl he hates. The girl he –

In a burst of rage, he flings the bottle from him. It shatters upon the opposite wall, an explosion of glass and amber liquid.

“Fuck!” he shouts into the vastness of the empty suite. “FUCK!!!”

He buries his face in his hands, collapsing in upon himself. His eyes sting, treacherous tears preparing to fall. He wipes across his face fiercely, breathing deep. Harsh gasping lungfuls of air.

Keep it together, Bass. Keep it fucking together.

Finally, he raises his head to survey the damage he’d wrought, the scotch soaked into the carpet, the shards of glass littering the floor. The maids are going to be pissed.

Shit.

His father is going to be pissed.

Damn it.

Damn her, he thinks as he leans back upon the leather cushions.

It’s only as he starts to escape into drunken dreams that it occurs to him that he isn’t entirely positive who he was referring to. Blair or Georgina?